words await you under untilled earth until you loose your hoe and sweat drops in. Tumescent gardens labor under hand. You've left your mind, since touch is mute. Fruit falls: The Word's what dirt engenders. Always was. Intake sharp: But Christ, it felt so good, you say, to have my fingers in. She's on my mind. Is it a sin to dampen her? To taste her soiled skin? Open up Persephone! Your cries of "Joy!" still end.

Pain would last if death were long. (The trees will come. Conceive the apple's juice's drip.) Tongue the lip. The eve of death is here. (The fuck's pronounced.) -Is this the taste of fear?